


show me some stars (beneath this ceiling)

by peaceoutofthepieces



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Pining, and they’re basically together but there’s a lot of pining, as far as i remember, its very fluffy but also very angsty, mentions of that scene, really an odd amount of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peaceoutofthepieces/pseuds/peaceoutofthepieces
Summary: Robbe holds the bag under his chin in hopes of catching some of the mess and sinks down lower, turns closer to Sander’s chest. Just to make it a little more difficult for Sander to see his face as he admits, “I wanted to wake up with you.”He can hear Sander crunching on his food, knows that’s why it takes him a while to answer, but the time allows his anxiety to build. It’s soothed slightly by Sander’s fingers skimming over his collarbone, back and forth in an idle rhythm. “We can take a nap.”~^~Or simply, five times Robbe wishes he could wake up next to Sander, and one time he does.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 13
Kudos: 211





	show me some stars (beneath this ceiling)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like while season 3 was still going and then felt kinda ugh about it and didn’t post it but now I’ve just decided to post it anyway?? So I apologize for the likely numerous mistakes throughout as I haven’t read over it. Just gonna hope it’s actually not that bad and leave it here.
> 
> TW: It’s pretty much all follow ups to canon scenes, including that one, and though it doesn’t go into that much detail I don’t think, if you want to skip that one, it’s number three!! Thank you for reading :)

**1.**

Robbe’s heart is racing. He’s breathless. 

Sheer adrenaline is keeping him going. It’s the only thing providing any heat. His clothes are still piled in his arms, and he can’t pause to think about that, doesn’t want to, knows it’ll terrify him. He just keeps running and laughing, following the shock of bleached hair that stays only a few feet ahead of him. Sander’s laughs float back to him and keep him following, chasing. He can’t believe they did that. He has no idea what they’re doing. 

He’s jolted abruptly to the side, dragged by Sander’s hand on his wrist, and then they’re behind a row of bushes and Sander is cursing and laughing and putting on his clothes and _oh, that’s what we’re doing_. Robbe shakes himself out of it, feels stupid for standing there in a daze when he’s freezing. His hands are going numb and his legs are aching from the mixture of the cold and exertion and his stomach is clenching entirely subconsciously and his nipples are literally going to _fall off_ , he’s so fucking cold. 

Then there’s another touch, on his still bare waist and the side of his neck. His t-shirt’s halfway up his arms and he’s never been so warm. Sander’s clothed chest presses against Robbe’s bare one as he slants their lips together and his laughter spills into Robbe’s ribcage, filling him up. Robbe kisses him and almost drops his clothes, forgetting everything else in his urgent need to _touch_. “Fuck, you’re freezing,” Sander mumbles. “You’re beautiful. You’re freezing.”

“Yeah, because you won’t let me put my clothes back on.” Robbe means it, but he doesn’t want Sander to move, laughs through the words as he presses closer and Sander pecks his lips once more. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. What he’s thinking. He’s not thinking at all. It’s a blissful feeling. 

Sander steps back, hands falling away slowly and leaving goosebumps over Robbe’s skin. Robbe aches to lean back into him, to stay close to his blissful heat. He doesn’t care that he’s standing behind a bush in his sweats, still bare from the waist up. He doesn’t care about what all of this means, if it means anything. He doesn’t care about anything but kissing this boy again. 

Instead he pulls his shirt on, tugs his jacket over his arms, and only realises once he’s wrapped up how cold he actually is. They couldn’t even dry themselves off, and his clothes are already damp enough to be irritating, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, because as soon as he’s dressed Sander pulls him in again, and Robbe’s mind empties. It’s a dangerous thing, how much he likes it. How much he wants it. 

Sander kisses the corner of his mouth, trails a fluttering path along his cheek, lets out an amused huff against his ear when Robbe sways into him. He wraps his arms around Robbe’s shoulders and says, “We forgot our bikes.”

Robbe hums, leaning against the blonde’s chest and turning his head for more kisses. Then he freezes. “What?” He looks around, pointlessly, in some mindless hope that their bikes have followed them on their own. Because they certainly didn’t fetch them on their way. “Fuck,” Robbe says, burying his face in his hands. Sander sneaks his fingers around them and kisses each one, just above the wrist, and Robbe lets him pull them away. “We can’t go back,” he mumbles, detached and contained even as he feels hysteria creeping in. “There’s no way I can get a new bike. I need to go back. Fuck.” He doesn’t understand how they were so stupid. How he was so stupid. He followed Sander blindly, without pausing to think. He can’t really bring himself to regret it. 

Mostly because Sander’s cupping his cheeks and kissing him again, whispering a gentle, “Hey.” He waits until Robbe’s looking at him, which might be a mistake, because when Robbe’s looking at him he’s not entirely capable of doing much else, such as listening to whatever he might say. “I can get it for you. I’ll go back. Wait here.”

Robbe does manage to hear that. (Although it does only sink in once Sander begins walking away and takes with him all his distractions.) He laughs, feeling some of the hysteria creep in, and reaches out for Sander. “Sander, wait, wha—“

Sander turns to him, arm in Robbe’s grip, and simply raises a brow. Robbe has the sudden realisation that this probably isn’t real. That he must be dreaming. He’s probably been dreaming for the past few weeks—dreamt Sander up entirely and created this dramatic, drawn out, heart-stopping fantasy. Even though he’s not artistic enough to conjure such a thing, to capture such accurate shadows and sparkles, that particular brightness to Sander’s eyes under the scarce spread of stars and a single street light. Sander himself. Yet, only in his deepest, wildest fantasy could something— _someone_ —so perfect exist. 

If he is dreaming, though, it’s unlikely anything particularly bad will happen. It won’t matter if he does. 

He’s already accepted that Sander could lead him anywhere and he’d probably follow without a question asked. So he leans in to kiss him again, hand grasping at soft, bleached hair, and says, “I’ll come with you.” Because he’s dreaming, and nothing matters. His mind has given him this, and he’s already taken it far enough that there’s no point in stopping now. 

He feels Sander’s smile, against his lips and his cheek and in his chest, settling low in his stomach, and then they’re running back the way they came. Clothed this time, at least. God, what are they doing? 

When the pool is in sight again, Sander comes to an abrupt stop and presses his arm to Robbe’s chest, a barricade and a support. Robbe’s breathing harshly, and he shouldn’t really be, he’s relatively fit, so he chalks it up to Sander, because the boy’s been leaving him breathless since they met. Sander looks over his shoulder at him and holds a finger to his lips, an ineffective warning due to the smile beneath it. The hysteria has been replaced with giddiness. Robbe bites his lip to hold back giggles and nods, and they creep towards the door together, Sander’s hand still hovering near Robbe’s chest. They crouch down behind the hedge a few metres away and Sander looks around, peeks his head over the top, and then yanks Robbe after him in a final sprint to their bikes. 

They collect them and climb on clumsily, Sander stumbling much like he had that first time, barely even an hour before. Then they’re off again, pumping their legs and letting their laughter fill the open space. 

Sander zooms off ahead of him; but Robbe doesn’t have much trouble catching up. When he does, Sander holds out his hand. Robbe smacks at as he had earlier, and Sander grips his fingers like he had earlier, except this time he keeps holding on. 

Robbe doesn’t mind one bit. 

It makes his bike wobble a little, but he doesn’t doubt that if he fell, Sander would either catch him or fall with him. So he lets himself be towed along at an easy pace, lets Sander swing their arms between them, lets himself _be_ , content and free and careless. 

Sander turns his dangerous smile on him once again, and Robbe’s heart picks up speed, but he only says, “Back through the tunnel?”

Robbe feels himself smiling back, unable to contain it. “So we can race again and I can beat you while you’re not cheating?”

“Hey!” Sander gives his hand a tug. “You cheated the last time,” he exclaims.

“I did not,” Robbe denies, but his smile is betraying him. He’s not, technically, lying. The competition aspect had been pretty absent by that point—it hardly counted as cheating when they’d stopped playing. Plus, they’d both come up at the same time. Robbe counted it as a win all around. 

But if Sander’s still up for it, Robbe’s not above a little play-fighting. A bit of friendly competition has proven to be a good choice so far. 

He lets Sander tug him along, lets himself be guided, unable to keep his eyes on the road in front of them. He stares at Sander, instead, tracing his eyes over his side profile. His hair, still damp, though drying quickly. His lips, the slight uptick at the corner. The dark curve of his eyebrow over bright eyes, intense as always but shining. Looking as content as Robbe feels. His quiet nature urges him to look away every time Sander turns his head, not wanting to be caught. It doesn’t matter than he can feel Sander’s gaze linger on him then, only looking away when his bike jolts oddly underneath him due to an errant stone or crack in the pavement. He can’t quite fight the smile off his face, however. It sits there, small and dopey and unmoving. Even when Sander lets go of his hand to race him down the tunnel. Even when his bike spins out of control and he almost careens into the wall, turning into a laugh at Sander’s panicked return and string of concerned questions. 

Even when they make it back to Robbe’s building and roll to a stop a little bit away, Sander’s feet settling on the ground as he gives it an appraising look. Robbe leans his back against the building and allows their gazes to meet this time. He feels silly for being shy before, all anxieties appearing foolish as warmth fills his chest. Sander stares at him, biting at his lip and seeming hesitant for the first time since Robbe met him. Then he’s getting off his bike and halfheartedly propping it against the wall. The distance between them disappears in an instant, but Sander stops himself from closing those last few inches. Robbe can feel the tension in him, pulled taut like a string that has its end hooked in Robbe’s own chest, and he lets it droop in relief by pressing forward and nudging his lips against Sander’s. 

Sander sighs into his mouth and his confidence makes an abrupt reappearance, his hands settling on Robbe’s hips and pulling him right in. Robbe parts his lips and lets Sander take what he wants, tries to give back all that he gets. His arms wind themselves around the blonde’s neck without his conscious decision. Trying to be closer. Trying to hold on. 

It didn’t feel like this, kissing Noor. Kissing anyone. He’s never been kissed like this before. Well, that’s not counting earlier. Or a little while before that. 

Before Sander. He’s never been kissed like this, before Sander. 

He’s never wanted to be kissed like this, before Sander. 

So he knows to enjoy it. To savor it. If it’s a dream, he wants to enjoy it as much as he can. He wants to remember it, as much as he can. He wants to focus on Sander and only Sander. He doesn’t think about those times he was kissing someone else, doesn’t think about Noor. He thinks about the fact he can feel Sander’s pulse under his hands. About how soft his hair is even with all that bleach in it, how he tilts his head and kisses him a little harder when Robbe runs his hands through it, tugs it just so. About Sander’s hands, on his waist, sliding around to his back, up to the back of his head and tangling in _his_ hair, anywhere they can reach. About Sander’s lips, pressing against his over and over, parting on gasps and letting Robbe in. About Sander’s tongue, teasing over his lips and the roof of his mouth and flicking against his teeth until he draws a laugh out of him, until he can make a joke out of it just to dive back in and make Robbe lose his mind again. 

About Sander, and nothing else. 

He’s still smiling when Sander pulls away, drawing it out with a few lingering pecks, pressing one to Robbe’s nose before stepping back entirely. Even when he says, “I should get going.” Because Sander’s still smiling, too. 

Robbe nods, swallowing down his words before they can escape. He doesn’t say anything, because he wants to say _stay_. He wants Sander to come in with him. To kiss him again. To curl up next to him, around him, on top of him, _whatever_. As long as he stays, close and warm and content, where Robbe can feel him. 

He wants to wake up with him and finally be able to believe he isn’t dreaming. 

But he can’t do that, so he nods, and Sander’s still giving him that look, so he thinks he might kiss him again. _Hopes_ he will. Instead he reclaims his bike and walks it backwards, keeping his eyes on Robbe. Robbe watches him until he has to round the corner and realises he really just wants to wake up with him because it means he wouldn’t have to leave. 

**2.**

Robbe wants to stay here forever. 

He knows that’s probably cliche, and corny, and sappy, and whatever else, and it makes it seem less genuine than it is, less meaningful, but he really can’t explain how much he means it. He has Sander right where he wants him, and he doesn’t ever want to let go. 

He already let go when he shouldn’t have. Worse than that. He pushed him away, hurt him in order to do it. He was sure he’d ruined everything. He was trying to. He should have. 

He doesn’t deserve this, really. He knows he doesn’t. Sander should never have even looked at him again, never have spared him a single thought. He shouldn’t have been forgiven. 

He wants to apologise again. Feels it bubbling up in him every few minutes. He’s torn. He wants to apologise again, multiple times. He knows apologies don’t suffice. He feels so happy. They’re both so happy. He doesn’t want to ruin that. He wants to stay on this high they’ve found, wants Sander to keep smiling so he can trace it with his fingers and his lips. Wants to tease more of that brilliant laughter out of him, wants to make him scoff and roll his eyes, wants to earn back that intense look from that night, their first night, forever ago but really only a week before. He wants to kiss him again and again and then do more than that, but maybe not now, maybe not yet, but the sheer feeling of _wanting at all_ is something he wants to hold onto. 

He wants to hold onto Sander and never let go. 

Sander makes it so easy for him to want these things. He just has to smile, or kiss his cheek, or lay on his chest or shoulder, or touch him in any of the smallest ways, and Robbe is gone. He’s just so beautiful that Robbe’s chest hurts, looking at him. Not looking at him. 

Really, he never stood a chance. He doesn’t know how he ever thought this was something he didn’t want. 

From the moment Sander played him in that kitchen, he’s all Robbe’s wanted. 

And Sander wanted him, even before that. 

“What are you thinking about?” Sander asks, chin propped on Robbe’s chest with a barely-there smile on his face. Robbe moves the hand in his hair down along his cheek and runs his finger over the blonde’s lip to make it widen, turning into that easy, blinding, sunshine grin that he’s so familiar with. 

He debates whether or not to tell the truth, but Sander’s eyes have slipped closed under his ministrations, so he musters up the confidence. “Did you really like me from that night?”

Sander’s eyes open at that, soft and bright and too green. Robbe’s heart flutters even before he says, “Yes. Did you really not notice me?”

Robbe shakes his head, then lets it fall back against the pillows. “I don’t know how you even knew it was me. You couldn’t even see my face?” It turns into a question at the end, because he’s suddenly not sure, suddenly can’t remember. Maybe he’d taken the mask off for a moment, or Sander had seen him before he put it on, but he doubts it. The picture is clearly him, but of course Robbe is going to recognise _himself_ , that’s not the same thing. For someone who’d never seen him before, it’s a different story. He can’t believe Sander even recognised him. He can’t believe he didn’t say anything about it. 

“I saw your eyes,” Sander points out. He reaches up and plays with Robbe’s hair. “Your hair. The rest of you.” His tone is so suggestive there that Robbe laughs, pulls him up for another kiss, because he can and he still can’t quite believe it so he’s going to remind himself as often as he likes. “Also, Noor took you mask off to kiss you. I was surprised by how much I wished I was her.” Sander plants a kiss on his cheek, trails a few down his neck, and Robbe hates what he does him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. 

Still, Robbe isn’t used to this, doesn’t know what to do, and he can feel heat creeping into his cheeks. It makes him giggle and look away, but that only gives Sander more room, more of Robbe’s sensitive skin to work with. 

He adds his teeth to the mix, biting down lightly, just a nip, and it really shouldn’t affect Robbe the way it does. But his stomach stirs and his cheeks only get warmer and he can’t help but squirm, whining a drawn out, “ _Sander_ ,” in protest. Sander chuckles and nips the spot once more, definitely enjoying Robbe’s little gust of breath, but relents when Robbe twists towards him in search of another kiss. 

Robbe can’t stop touching him. He always his a hand on his neck, in his hair, skimming over his back, down his side. Wherever he can reach. Anywhere and everywhere he wants. Sander reciprocates in kind, so Robbe’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind. 

Sander half lying on top of him is really, really nice, and Robbe thinks he’s making that thought pretty clear. So when Sander sits up to look down at him, much too far away, he really should be expecting Robbe’s protests. He laughs and pokes Robbe’s cheek, leaning down to kiss his nose, just to make his face scrunch up. “You’re adorable,” he mumbles, easy smile on his face, and Robbe blushes and turns his head away, giving a breathy laugh. 

“You can’t keep doing that,” Robbe protests. 

“What?” Sander raises his brows. “Complimenting you? But you’re so cute, Robbe,” he coos, smushing Robbe’s cheeks. Robbe bats him away, but it’s half-hearted. It only leads to Sander catching his hands and pressing kisses to the back of them. 

Robbe is really tired of being the only one blushing, and he’s not about to be outdone. He pushes Sander back against the pillows and swings a leg over his lap again, enjoying the brief surprise that flickers over his face. “Woah, we’re very confident,” Sander teases and Robbe just hums, stealing a short kiss. “Or very needy?”

“Hey,” Robbe protests, deciding to silence him by kissing him again. He doesn’t think about how it probably proves Sander’s point. Sander’s kissing back, though, holding him to his chest, so Robbe makes himself comfortable on his lap and kisses him until his lips are numb. 

Then, he just leans into him. He wraps his arms tighter around his shoulders and tucks his face into his neck and relishes in the way Sander’s hold tightens in return, arms strong around his waist. He presses his lips to Sander’s neck lightly, briefly, and then just sits there. Holding him. Being held. This is all he intended. Closeness, intimacy, yes, he craves it always around Sander, but nothing more, nothing they aren’t yet ready for. He just wants them to be like this, just them, close and comfortable and _together_. 

“Can I just stay here forever?” Sander asks quietly, after a moment. The words ruffle Robbe’s hair. Robbe hears the echo of his own thoughts in them and cuddles closer, squeezes him tighter. 

“You can,” Robbe whispers, because he wants to say, _please, stay, I don’t ever want you to leave again_. Even though he’s the one who left, really. He’s the one who did this to himself, who let fear consume him and pushed Sander away. The knowledge that Sander wants him regardless, wants him _forever_ , makes him a little dizzy. 

“You know,” Sander starts again, “I bet we live together, in another universe. I bet I get to stay with you like this, every day.”

Robbe wants to be in that universe. Except he doesn’t, because then that means he wouldn’t be here, right now, where forever seems far away but there’s an undeniable _something_ stirring to life between them. He can’t admit to even thinking about any of that, though, so he hums. “Just the one?”

Sander shrugs, laughing when the movement makes Robbe’s head bob. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Robbe shrugs back. He thinks he would find Sander in every universe. He doesn’t think he’d let him go for long in any of them. So his answer, that he only admits to himself, is _infinite universes. I would choose you, stay with you, forever, always_. He doesn’t give a verbal answer, but he kisses Sander’s shoulder. 

A phone buzzes, and Sander reaches to pick it up, and something in Robbe’s chest twists and tightens. His immediate thought is that it’s Britt, texting again, sending a sweet message to her boyfriend. His stomach revolts at the mere thought. When he subtly turns his head, he catches a glimpse of the contact, Sander’s mother, and feels silly even as relief takes over him. He tells himself it wouldn’t matter anyway, that if it had been Britt, Sander wouldn’t reply. He didn’t before, Robbe’s sure. He’d promised that if he did, it would be for the simple reason of telling her to stop. 

Sander heaves a sigh and tilts his head against Robbe’s. “I’ll have to go, soon. My parents want me to have dinner with them.”

Robbe nods, solemn, because he can’t say no to that. He wants to, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be separated from the other boy again, no matter how briefly. He wants, at least, proof that this is real. That it’s going to last a little longer, beyond today and a few after that. He wants Sander to stay here so Robbe can hold him, can continue to apologise without the words, and finally, _finally_ , wake up with this boy next to him. 

“Hey,” Sander says softly, knowing exactly what Robbe’s thinking, just like he always does. “It’s just tonight. I’ll see you again tomorrow.” 

Robbe only nods again. Sander jostles him until he can cup his face, then drags him until their nose to nose. “Hey. I’ll miss you, too.” Robbe smiles at that, closes his eyes, and settles once he feels Sander’s lips on his. The next time, he thinks. They’ll be able to stay together next time. They have forever to wake up together. 

**3.**

Robbe can’t breathe. 

It’s because his entire chest aches, he knows. It’s because his ribs feel bruised and out of place and something’s been dislodged in his stomach and he simply can’t get the breaths in. 

He knows it’s because he’s terrified. And he’s crying. And he doesn’t really want to be breathing, right now. 

He curls up tighter and considers it, wonders, but his lungs are begging and he can’t think so his body works on its own and does its best to provide. The only air he can get is sucked in through his teeth, and it leaves him gasping and wheezing but it’s working. He knows, because the pain intensifies. His breath rattled along his ribs, knocking on every bone, pushing and pulling in and out and _fuck, it hurts_. His stomach throbs. His head is buzzing, spinning, and he’s glad he’s still lying down, even though the chill of the pavement is seeping into his bones and deepening the ache. He doesn’t want to move. He can’t. There’s no point. 

Then the ringing dies down, and he can hear his breathing again, except he’s hearing double. Echoes. 

Except he’s not. He’s hearing another person. He’s hearing Sander. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in another breath. He needs to get up. He needs to, and he will, he just has to take his time. He just has to not think about it. He prods at his chest, testing. It gets a choked cry out of him, but he can bear it. He can. He presses his hand to the ground and pushes himself off, slow, too slow, wincing all the way. He manages to roll onto his knees and then he pauses as his vision goes dark around the edges, as the ringing in his ears returns. He breathes deeply and waits, and once he can he seeks out blonde hair. He finds Sander curled against the wall, unmoving. He makes no sound other than watery, laboured breaths. 

Robbe’s heart thumps painfully. 

Sander’s only a short distance away, but it takes Robbe years to crawl to him, to find the strength to lift a hand and set it on his shoulder. Sander flinches from his touch and Robbe retracts it immediately, hurt by this amid everything, even though he understands, even though he should’ve expected it. Robbe looks at his face—at the bruise on his cheek, around his eye—and bites down a sob. “Sander,” he tries, then clears his throat, tries again. It’s quiet, but Sander blinks, focuses his gaze on Robbe, and reaches out for him. 

Robbe instantly settles a hand on his uninjured cheek, brushing away the few tears that have leaked out. He needs to know if he’s okay, needs to ask, but of course he can’t ask that, of course Sander’s not okay, how could he be? Robbe certainly isn’t. 

Sander doesn’t ask, either, just stares at him and says, “Robbe,” in a ragged tone. Robbe strokes his cheek, shushing him, assuring him, but Sander just reaches up to touch his temple, repeats, “Robbe.”

When Sander pulls his hand away, his fingers are red, wet with blood. Robbe’s blood. Robbe blinks at it, raises his own hand to the cut, and feels bile rise in his throat. His next breath is ragged, panicked, and Sander forces himself up to sitting with a groan. He pulls Robbe against him, cradling his head against his chest, and Robbe allows himself one short, low sob before forcing the rest down. Sander tightens his arms around him. Robbe says, “I’m okay.” He’s amazed his voice doesn’t break. 

“You should go to the hospital,” Sander argues, except he doesn’t, really, his tone too flat, emotionless. Robbe just shakes his head. They should both go to the hospital, probably. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t think Sander would agree, either. So he repeats that he’s fine, says that it would be unnecessary, because he’s not going to go if Sander’s not going with him. Sander is his priority. 

Robbe gives his waist a squeeze and says, “I just want to go home.” Sander pets his hair. He debates asking if he wants Robbe to call someone, but he isn’t sure who he would call. Jens, Senne, whoever, would come get him, but they don’t know. He could call Milan. Milan would know, instantly, and he would question and hover but he would back off when Robbe asked. Right now, though, he doesn’t even want him to know. He doesn’t want to be coddled and pitied and taken care of, because that won’t make him feel better. 

For right now, he wants to believe it didn’t happen. 

He wants to hold onto Sander and have Sander hold him and pretend that they’re okay. The ache in his chest can be replaced with the fluttering heartbeat Sander always conjures, the pains in his stomach soothed by warmth. He knows he shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t try to ignore it, shouldn’t push it away, but he does. For now, that’s what he does. For now, that’s all he can do. He soaks up some more of Sander’s comfort until the blonde starts to loosen his grip, and they slowly make their way to standing. 

Robbe can’t even imagine getting on his bike. When he simply starts walking and wheeling it alongside him, Sander does the same without a word. He’d been worried it might’ve been broken, but nothing seems out of place. He can’t quite say the same for himself. Nothing’s broken, he’s pretty sure, but out of place—well, out of place fits everything. They’re farther apart than he would like, both their bikes between them, but Robbe bites his lip and refuses to ask for anything different. Sander’s been oddly quiet. Maybe he doesn’t crave contact and comfort like Robbe. Maybe he wants space. Robbe isn’t going to deny him something like that, not now, and he knows that asking would do exactly that because Sander wouldn’t deny him, either. 

So he walks and tries to ignore the hole in his chest that’s growing to match the space between them. When Sander walks him right to his door, he doesn’t ask then, either. He just looks and hopes the other understands, prays that he’ll accept the unspoken offer. Sander gaze glances off him, to the side, back the way they came, the way he would leave if he’s going to, and Robbe knows he is even before he speaks. “I think I should go home, too.”

Robbe nods, mute. His mouth is dry, his throat closed. He unsticks his tongue enough to say, “Do you want someone to take you? I could—I could get Milan, or you could call someone, or we could get you a taxi—“

“It’s fine,” he cuts him off, not frustrated or angry or tired. Soft, quiet, the way he only seems to be with Robbe. When he sees that the other doesn’t believe him, he momentarily abandons his bike and takes the two steps to Robbe, cradling his face. “It’s fine, Robbe.”

And it’s not, Robbe’s not, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to wake Milan and terrified of Sander walking the distance himself and his breath is catching in his lungs again and he can’t get it to move, can’t move anything. Sander’s hands slip down to his shoulders and glide down his arms until he can grip Robbe’s, squeezing in comfort, and Robbe slowly exhales. 

_Please, don’t, it’s not okay, I’m not okay, I won’t be okay if you leave, so please, don’t. Stay. I want you to stay_ , Robbe thinks. 

He says, “Will you text me? When you get back?”

Sander nods, smiles, and it’s fascinating how everything in Robbe calms at the curve of his lips. He leans in then and presses them to Robbe’s own, brief, chaste, and Robbe squeezes his eyes shut. Sander kisses his forehead and steps away. “Of course,” he murmurs, tone smooth as ever, and Robbe digs his nails into his palms. He won’t be weak, will be as strong for Sander as he’s being for Robbe, and that means he can sleep on his own. It means he doesn’t have to reach out again, doesn’t have to cling on and refuse to let go. It means there’s no reason for him to cry when Sander gets on his bike and heads down the street without looking back. He can’t see well enough to be completely sure if he winces, but he’s sure enough. 

The apartment is dark and quiet when he makes it up the stairs. He’s disappointed and relieved. He doesn’t want to explain. He doesn’t want to interact with anyone. He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants Sander. 

He curls up in bed, alone, legs tucked up and arms close to his chest, and he hates it, because it takes him right back there, but it’s all he can do. Curl up in a vain attempt to protect himself. To stop it from hurting so much. To feel some sort of comfort. 

It’s not really working, so he thinks about Sander, because all thoughts of Sander are comforting, soothing, always. Except now when he thinks about touching him, kissing him, it’s followed with _after_ , and he’s right back there, and his only image of Sander is the boy curled up on the ground, trying to protect himself after trying to protect Robbe. His chest constricts, his eyes sting, and squeezing them shut doesn’t help. The image is still there, the tears slip out anyway. He fists his hand in his pillow and holds on the way he wishes he could hold onto Sander, the way he wishes he’d held on a few moments ago, refusing to let the boy leave. 

Crying only increases the pain in his chest, his stomach, his head, but he can’t stop. He probably should have checked himself out, should have at least cleaned the cut on his head, stuck a band-aid on it, anything. But he avoided the mirror in the bathroom and got changed in the dark and all he wants to do is sleep. He worries that maybe he shouldn’t, that maybe his head injury is worse than he wants to believe, but it doesn’t really hurt that much, and he’s just so, _so tired_. His tears are making the pillow damp and cold under his cheek, and it only makes him feel worse, frustrated. He wipes them away, digs the heel of his hand into his eye for a second, and almost misses his phone lighting up where he’s left it on the locker. 

_Home and in bed. I love you._. 

Robbe’s sight blurs again, and he’s only able to send a heart in response. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t say anything else. He holds his phone to his chest and allows himself to think of Sander again, to imagine that he’s here, tucked in behind him and around him. Holding him, protecting him, loving him. Being _here_. He’s used to wanting Sander, but it’s never felt quite like this. Even when he thought he’d lost him, even when he missed him more than anything, it wasn’t quite as much as he misses him now. 

He wants to wake up to Sander’s arms around him, to his sunny smile, unmarred by pain or fear or sadness. He wants none of it to have happened. 

For once, he wants to wake up and find it was all a cruel, terrible dream. 

**4.**

Robbe has never really thought he’d like being manhandled, never really thought about it at all. It’s definitely not something he’s _fantasized_ about, or anything like that. But having Sander toss him around, realising that he _can_ , well—he can’t say it doesn’t do _things_ to him. He can’t say it doesn’t turn him on. Though, clearly, everything about Sander turns him on. From his outrageously bleached hair to his brilliant green eyes to his ridiculously soft lips. Then there’s all the rest of him, his arms and his hands and his chest and his stomach and his _back_. His thighs, that Robbe has become recently more familiar with, that are now held captive between Robbe’s own as Sander rucks his shirt up to his chest and detaches from his neck long enough to pull it off. 

Robbe knows it’s distracting him, that he has more he wants to say, more he wants to ask, but it’s incredibly comforting. Sander kissing him, Sander touching him, Sander wanting him, Sander _here_. It’s all he wants, at the moment, all he needs, so he helps divest Sander of all his layers again and simply pulls him close. Now that he knows the strength hidden in those deceptively skinny limbs, he marvels at how easily Sander lets himself be handled, how he shows no resistance as Robbe pushes him onto his back and takes over. It’s intriguing, the understanding that he could, that Sander could easily hold him down if he wanted to. Sander wouldn’t just do that, he knows, wouldn’t use his strength against him, and that’s what makes Robbe seriously consider it. He wonders if Sander would do it if he _asked_ , is pretty sure that he would, then wonders if it’s something he wants, if it’s something Sander would want, and he can’t believe he’s even going down this line of thought so he tucks it into the back of his mind for sometime much, much later. 

When Sander’s finished distracting him with his muscles and his kisses they remember the breakfast Sander so kindly snuck out to get. Robbe finds the croissants on the floor, all still safely in the bag. Robbe worries about all the potential crumbs in his sheets for about half a second, in which he wants to eat carefully, before he’s tucking himself into Sander’s side anyway. Sander presses a kiss to his hair and accepts the offered pastry. 

Robbe holds the bag under his chin in hopes of catching some of the mess and sinks down lower, turns closer to Sander’s chest. Just to make it a little more difficult for Sander to see his face as he admits, “I wanted to wake up with you.”

He can hear Sander crunching on his food, knows that’s why it takes him a while to answer, but the time allows his anxiety to build. It’s soothed slightly by Sander’s fingers skimming over his collarbone, back and forth in an idle rhythm. “We can take a nap.”

“Sander,” Robbe protests. He can hear the amusement in Sander’s voice, the teasing, but he can’t quite match the tone. Can’t quite get the volume into his voice, can’t quite mask the fact that he’s still a little upset. That he’s still a little wary, still a little untrusting of this. 

Sander finishes his food and wraps his now freed hand around Robbe’s waist, the other still draped over his shoulder. “I woke up with you. And you’re so beautiful, Robbe. You looked so peaceful, and content, and I just wanted to do something for you. To make you smile.”

“I would have smiled seeing you. I don’t need croissants. I just needed to know you hadn’t left again.”

Sander presses his nose to Robbe’s cheek. “I didn’t mean to. Before. Britt, she just—she made me confused. Made me think it’d be better for you if I wasn’t with you. And I was—I was scared, and I believed her.”

“Sander,” Robbe whispers, finally allowing himself to turn towards him. “I could never be better off without you.”

He can’t quite explain how much Sander hurt him, doesn’t actually want to. He wants to bask in this, in them, wants to cling to it and trust that Sander means what he said. He truly thinks that he does, believes it more with every kiss and smile and softly spoken reassurance. He wants to enjoy it while he can, to enjoy Sander. He doesn’t want to ruin their renewed happiness with any of this. He mentioned Britt and that was enough, made his stomach churn enough. 

He doesn’t want to mention _that_. Because Sander hasn’t brought it up. Robbe thinks there’s a vague allusion in there, hears it in the hitched tone of ‘scared’. But it doesn’t feel open to discussion. If feels far away, now, removed, hidden. Like they’ve made the mutual decision to forget it ever happened. 

Robbe’s not sure he’ll ever be able to. But he doesn’t bring it up. 

He doesn’t bring it up because he can see the pain in Sander’s eyes now, can see it slowly being replaced with relief, and he wants to rewind to the happiness they had moments ago, wants Sander to give him his sunshine smile and kiss him and make him feel okay. He listens to Sander’s sigh, sees the beginning of his smile, and takes the initiative himself. He lets himself get lost in the kisses, lets himself drown in them because he trusts Sander to always give him more air. Because there’s an equality to their give and take that he’s never found anywhere else, a surety and a balance he’s still getting used to. 

Robbe makes his marks where he pleases and is happy Sander doesn’t protest. Is spurred on by his response, all the lovely tiny noises he makes, taking it as encouragement. Sander only eventually tugs him away to kiss him again, before returning the favour. 

He’s content. They’re sweaty and flushed from their activities, trading kisses and words and affection. He’s a little wired, a little overheated, but it isn’t bothering him much. Lying on his bed with his head on the soft pillows and the covers pulled up to his chest and Sander curled around him, he’s content. He feels more peaceful than he can ever remember being. Nothing else has ever brought him this kind of quiet happiness, the kind that fills up his chest and spreads through his veins, wrapping his heart in warmth and cradling it in the most gentle grip. 

Sander presses a kiss to his shoulder and then tucks his chin over it. He trails a finger over Robbe’s forearm, light sweeps back and forth, and says, “I’ll have to go home soon.”

Robbe twists his hand around until he finds Sander’s and locks their fingers together. His heart clenches, as if it can hold on to that content feeling by sheer force of will. As if it can hold on to Sander. “Can’t you stay?”

“I wish,” Sander sighs. He tightens his grip on Robbe—squeezing his fingers, hugging him closer to his chest. “I want to. I would stay here forever if I could. Can I? Can you lock us in?”

Robbe smiles. “You can.” He twists in the other’s grip, turning his head to look back at him, and whispers, “I won’t let them take you back.”

This earns him another kiss. Robbe really wishes he could stay again, really wants the chance to wake up with him, but he’ll take what he can get. He’ll take Sander’s promise to text him as soon as he gets home and then late on into the night. He’ll take his deep kisses and loving touches now. He’ll take _’I’ll come back tomorrow as soon as I can so we can finish this, okay?’_ in all its giggly glory when he tries to convince Sander to stay through his masterful powers of seduction. 

He’ll take a goodbye kiss, _I love you_ murmured against his lips, and Sander’s t-shirt to wrap around him in the boy’s place. Because he has infinite time in infinite universes to wake up with this boy, and he knows now that their separation is only temporary. 

Whilst they, Robbe and Sander, are one hundred percent, forever. 

**5.**

Then he realises none of it was real. 

He wants to go to him, still. Despite Britt’s words, despite Sander’s lack of reaction, Robbe wants to go to him. It’s why he stands there and watches the ambulance pull away. It’s why he begins to pedal after it, before his senses come back to him and he stops abruptly, just outside the school. There’s no siren, and they’re going at a steady pace, not in a rush. It’s quiet, not particularly notable. Complete devoid of panic. It does not at all match Robbe’s urgency, the fast pace of his heart. 

Sander had looked so small. So young. So emotionless. He hadn’t looked like _Sander_. There had been nothing of the bright, magnetic boy Robbe has come to know. That spark that had first drawn Robbe to him had just been extinguished, leaving a dim holder in its place. 

The lump in Robbe’s throat has grown so large that it’s choking him, and he can’t find the strength to swallow it down. 

How did he not know? 

He’d just lain there, half asleep, and let it happen. He’d watched Sander continuously get up, listened to him pace and open windows. He’d thought his breathing had sounded off. He’d thought there was something off, maybe, earlier. Thought maybe it was unusual. 

Still, he hadn’t really thought anything of it. 

Why didn’t he do anything? Why didn’t he fucking wake up and pay attention and stop him? Why didn’t he _notice_?

Why didn’t Sander tell him?

There’s hundreds of reasons, probably, many unreasonable but understandable. Would it have made any difference, if Robbe had known? Maybe he would’ve paid more attention. Realised earlier and managed to keep Sander with him, or take him home, or get him back before the paramedics had to. 

But it wouldn’t have changed the thing that actually _hurts_. It wouldn’t have meant Sander loved him for real. 

He feels his heart collapsing in on itself, there in the street, shriveling up like Robbe is tempted to do. He wants to just curl up on the pavement and hide. To let the ground swallow him whole, putting him away like he’d never even existed. No one could love someone who didn’t exist. That wouldn’t be half as embarrassing. It wouldn’t be half as painful. 

But people are already looking at him, watching while pretending not to, and the last thing Robbe needs is to draw more attention. He’s sure they’ve all witnessed everything. It makes his heart ache, thinking of Sander here, under all their scrutiny. Out of his mind and vulnerable, naked and lost and _alone_. Anything could have happened to him. Robbe wonders what _did_ happen, who found him and called who must be his mother and Britt and the ambulance. If it was a stranger, someone still here, standing around. If it was the police. If it was Sander himself. Robbe doubts that, but he supposes he shouldn’t trust his judgment on anything. He doesn’t really know what Sander would do, because he doesn’t know Sander at all. 

He’d known a Sander who loved him, and he’s just found out that Sander doesn’t exist. 

He doesn’t quite like the idea of breaking down in the middle of the street, and the lump in his throat is quickly turning into sobs. He has to get away before he can let them escape, because he should try to keep at least some of his dignity. He’s not sure if it’s too late for that, already. 

It’s like that night weeks ago. Robbe returns to the flat to find it dead, no one there to greet him, and he’s simultaneously relieved and crushed. He wants Milan’s wisdom, his gentle honesty and boundless comfort. He wants Zoe’s motherly gaze, her easy affection and warm hug. He wants Senne’s silent company, nonjudgmental and comforting in its own, brotherly way. 

He doesn’t want anyone else to see him like this. He doesn’t want any pitying eyes. He doesn’t think he can handle any interaction, doesn’t think he can form words or deal with physical contact. 

None but Sander’s. 

It’s what twists the knife. The understanding that Sander is the only one who could possibly comfort him right now. That despite all of it he wants Sander’s arms around him and Sander’s pieces of affection and Sander’s words of comfort. He wants Sander, as much as he always does, as much as it feels like he always has and as much as he knows he now always will. It hurts, the realisation of just how much Robbe loves _him_. 

It hurts that not even two hours ago, Robbe had had him in his arms. It hurts that not long before that he’d had him even closer, in a way he’s never had anyone but Sander. It hurts that he’d been so sure Sander had loved him then, because how could he do that, make Robbe feel like that, if he didn’t? Why would he bother? Why would his eyes shine like that, his smile matching them, if not because he was in love?

Mania, Robbe’s been told. 

He types ‘bipolar’ into Google on his phone, curled on his bed with a pillow crushed to his chest and tears freely soaking his cheeks. But his eyes are already blurry and the brightness of the screen is only making them worse and the words he can make out are only increasing the pounding in his head. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, what he thought he’d get out of it, why he didn’t realise it would only make him feel worse. He’s already established that the only thing that could make him feel better is _Sander_. And Sander isn’t here. He’ll probably never be here again. 

He’d been with him. They were happy. So happy, so content. Sander had surprised him, had been so sweet and teasing and tantalizing, as he always is. Robbe had wanted him more than ever. They’d had dinner. They’d had sex. They’d been _together_ , and Robbe had been so content. He’s never felt anything like it. 

And now it’s gone. 

Ripped away from him. 

Like it had never fucking existed. 

The sudden thought comes to him that it possibly isn’t like this in every universe. It can’t be, right? In another universe, there’s a Robbe who’s with his Sander right now, who has been for years and who will be for the rest of their lives. In another universe, there’s a Robbe and Sander that have just met. In another universe, there is a Sander who loves him. 

This also doesn’t really make him feel any better. 

He wonders if, maybe, in another universe, there’s a Sander who isn’t bipolar. If there’s a Sander free of mental illness entirely. 

Robbe doesn’t care. He’s not in another universe, and he doesn’t want another Sander. He wants his bleached blonde, green-eyed Bowie lover, bipolarity and all. It doesn’t matter to him. He wishes he could at least tell Sander that—that he’s found that someone to love him, that Robbe loves him more than anything, unconditionally, and it doesn’t matter that Sander didn’t mean it. He’s still the best thing to ever happen to Robbe. He still deserves the world. Robbe wants to tell him that. 

He wants to wake up in the morning with Sander in his arms, like he was supposed to. To give him one last kiss, one last reminder, and promise him that everything will be okay. He just wants to know that Sander’s okay. 

But just the thought of his name makes his heart ache. He never really wants to see him again. He realises there’s a possibility he never will. 

He goes to sleep with nothing but that thought to keep him company. 

**+1**

It’s not exactly what he expected, when he finally does wake up with Sander, but he isn’t disappointed. 

Blonde hair tickles his chin and gentle breaths tickle his collar. There’s a comforting weight on his chest, along his side, that he hadn’t realised he’s been missing this past week. That he hadn’t known he’s grown to expect. He wasn’t supposed to get used to it that quickly. Now that he has it, he can’t quite figure out how he lived without it. The idea doesn’t scare him, not like it might have a year ago, a month ago. He doesn’t think it’ll be an issue. 

Sander shifts in his sleep, curling his arm closer to himself and pressing his face into Robbe’s chest. Robbe pets light fingers through his hair and kisses the top of his head. He covers Sander’s hand with his own and traces over the knuckles until it relaxes again, flattening over Robbe’s stomach. There’s still a tension evident in his shoulders, the taut curl of his back, but it has eased out slowly through the night. His expression, at least, is completely smoothed out, peaceful in his sleep. Not at all like the broken thing that had taken it over yesterday. That had probably been there for days before Robbe found him. Since Robbe let him go. 

But he’s here now, he reminds himself, and that’ll have to be good enough. Now, he’s holding onto Sander. He doesn’t plan on letting go again. 

It had been hard, seeing him like that. Almost worse than the week before. It only wasn’t because Robbe was finally sure, yesterday. There hadn’t been the same fear and confusion and doubt. There hadn’t been the same despair. Robbe was sure he was losing Sander, before. That wasn’t a worry yesterday. Robbe hadn’t planned on leaving without him—if Sander didn’t want to leave at all, Robbe would be staying with him. Because he knew, as soon as he got that message, that Sander didn’t really want him to leave. He just couldn’t bring himself to ask Robbe to stay. 

He’d sat there for almost an hour just holding him. He’d moved to settle them more comfortably against the wall, but other than that, he’d been a solid and silent presence, hoping that Sander would understand. Or at least stop pushing him away. 

It seems to have worked. 

He’d wiped Sander’s cheeks wordlessly and asked what he wanted to do. He strongly suggested they go home, of course, but he would’ve stayed as long as Sander needed. Sander hadn’t wanted to go home. He still hadn’t realised. He needed his home to be Robbe, right now, and Robbe knew it. He wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, either, if their roles were switched. Sander’s his safe place, too. Even if he doesn’t yet know it. 

Robbe has known it since the first time Sander touched him. 

He comes to life slowly now under Robbe’s own ministrations. His arm shifts first, draping over Robbe’s waist and pulling him close in what seems to be a completely unconscious gesture. It makes Robbe smile anyway. His head moves next, turning first into Robbe’s chest before realising it has nowhere left to go. He makes a muffled, disgruntled sound and twists around again, pillowing his cheek more comfortably and scrunching his face up in displeasure. Robbe tucks the covers up around his shoulders and passes a soothing touch over his jaw, and his eyes blink open. 

Robbe greats him with a smile, small and easy, and Sander fixates on it, expressionless. 

“Hey,” Robbe says quietly, and his mind stops there. His earlier determination and conviction seems to have gone, run off and left him with his tail between his legs. He feels out of his depth, suddenly. Sander’s eyes are clearer than before, so intent and alert and _green_. There’s a pebble sized piece of Robbe’s heart purely dedicated to loving those eyes. He doesn’t want to see them sad again. 

They travel over his face now, taking in every inch, cataloguing him, and Robbe feels settled under their intensity. This doesn’t scare him. This is familiar. This is _Sander_. 

“I thought maybe I’d dreamt you,” Sander says finally, an admission and a revelation all at once. 

Robbe trails his finger around Sander’s ear, through the short strands of hair, and down along his jaw, watching as Sander’s eyes drift shut. He says, “I know the feeling.”

This earns a tiny smile. It’s the best thing Robbe has ever seen. 

He lifts Sander’s chin enough to kiss his forehead and is mildly surprised when Sander stretches further, a silent plead. Robbe is all too happy to comply. He keeps his kiss soft, close-lipped, and Sander seems content to follow along, reciprocating with ever gentle press of his mouth. 

Robbe brushes their noses together, lets their foreheads rest together, then tugs Sander back on to his chest, wrapping him up tightly. He drops another kiss on his head as he does so, for the simple reason that he can. “Don’t you have school?”

“Mm,” Robbe affirms. “My exam isn’t until later, though. I get to lie in with you for a bit.”

Sander hums. “Lucky you.” There’s some of his usual suggestive intonation, hidden in the still visible traces of his smile, but it’s weak. Only barely there. Robbe is happy to take what he can get. 

“Very lucky,” Robbe agrees, squeezing him tighter just in case the message isn’t clear. Sander doesn’t say anything, but he picks Robbe’s hand up off his waist to tangle it with his own, settling them on Robbe’s chest. Robbe lets him play with his fingers in silence. If that’s what Sander needs, it’s not much for Robbe to give. His throat still feels tight and there’s a lingering ache covering his heart, but Sander’s _here_. He’s with Robbe and he’s safe and that’s all that matters. 

Sander eventually clears his throat. “Thanks for letting me stay.” 

Robbe wonders if he says it for lack of anything else. He wonders if maybe he’s joking—teasing. Because that doesn’t make any sense. Robbe should be thanking him for being here. He wants to thank him for everything. Robbe wouldn’t be who he is without Sander. He wouldn’t be himself—he would never have gotten the chance. Robbe says, “You can stay forever, if you like.”

Sander makes a questioning hum; Robbe hums affirmingly back at him. He doesn’t say anything else, because if he tries, he’ll say everything else. He’ll tell Sander how there’s nothing he wants more, how he wishes he could infinitize this minute and live together in it forever. Because maybe they’re not currently as happy as they could be, as they have already been, but it’s more than Robbe expected to ever have again. He’s content. He thinks Sander is, too. 

But he wouldn’t be if Robbe said any of that, so he doesn’t. Not right now. It’d be a bit contrary to his minute by minute promise, he thinks, and he doesn’t plan on breaking that. 

Robbe questions, “Are you hungry?”

Sander hasn’t eaten much. He hasn’t moved, really. When Robbe brought him home yesterday he’d spent the first while laying with him. Sander had immediately sunk into his arms and fallen asleep, his body a dead weight after having completely shut down with exhaustion. Robbe realised he probably hadn’t slept properly in days. He stayed with him for over an hour, just laying there and providing whatever comfort he could, before getting up to get himself food and deciding to make Sander some as well. 

He hadn’t wanted any of it. Robbe hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t wanted Robbe hovering. Robbe had left. 

Well, he’d gone out to the sitting room and stared blankly at the television until Milan and then Zoe had come home. They’d distracted him a bit, but he couldn’t help wandering into Sander occasionally. He used the excuse of needing to study more, sitting at his desk and studying little more than Sander’s features, until Sander had called him quietly and reached his arm out in offering. 

He’d gotten Sander to eat a little dinner. He settled in with him again then and he hasn’t moved since. 

But it spins round and round in his head, poking at his skull. The reminder that Sander probably hasn’t eaten much in days, either. Robbe can’t force feed him, but he can casually bring it up every now and then.

“Not really,” Sander mumbles, and that’s fair. He’ll leave it at that. “You should go make yourself breakfast though, if you are.”

“I’m okay,” Robbe assures. “I want to stay here for a little bit.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Then, “You don’t have to stay with me. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Sander.” Robbe shakes his head, then realises the other boy can’t see him. He adds a little extra incredulity to his voice instead. “You’re not a burden. You’re my boyfriend. I missed you. Can’t I just want to lay with you for a little while?”

Sander swallows, but his voice is still hoarse when he speaks. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Sander,” Robbe says again. He tugs at the boy’s side, urging him back a few inches so he can look at Robbe and hopefully be more convinced. Sander reluctantly drags his head up onto the pillow, not far from Robbe’s own. Robbe rests a hand on his neck to keep him there. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Okay?”

Sander rolls onto his back, and the movement takes him just a little further away. “There is,” he whispers brokenly. “I hurt you. I’ve hurt you so many times.”

His eyes are glistening again, and _no_ , this is not what Robbe wanted. At all. His heart throbs. He should’ve kept him bundled up in his arms. He’s farther away now, and Robbe’s scared Sander won’t let him reach him again. He shifts a bit closer, breaching some of the distance, and decides to at least try. “I know. I hurt you too. But none of it hurt as much as when I thought I’d lost you.”

Sander’s already shaking his head, fingers clenching and opening over and over again on top of his chest. “No, no, you got _hurt_.”

And suddenly, Robbe understands. 

“Sander, no. No, that’s not—“ But Sander doesn’t even seem to be listening, still shaking his head and clenching and unclenching his fist, chest rising and falling in unsteady motions. He abandons the soft tone then, putting as much conviction in his words as he can muster. “Sander, no. That wasn’t you. _You_ did not hurt me. That wasn’t your fault, Sander. Do you hear me? That wasn’t you.”

“Hey,” he continues, gentle again, cupping Sander’s cheek and tilting his head towards him. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not. If I hadn’t been with you—“

“No, Sander. If _I_ hadn’t been with _you_. You got hurt, too. Why aren’t you blaming me? Why should it be on you?”

“Because I told you not to do anything about it,” Sander snaps. He looks back at the ceiling and rubs his hands over his face then leaves them there. He’s breathing harshly, still, and his shoulders heave once, a tremor running through him. Robbe pulls his hands away, tangles them with his own and sets the whole bundle on Sander’s chest. A hopefully steadying weight. 

“Okay,” Robbe whispers. “Okay. But that doesn’t make it your fault. You have to know that, Sander. It wasn’t our fault.” Sander remains unmoved. “Sander,” Robbe prods. Then, “Why didn’t you want to go to the police?”

The blonde closes his eyes. “I did. I thought that we should. I just—that morning, Britt was there and when she asked what happened I just told her. She wouldn’t let it go and she already knew about us and she was—she was angry at me and I just told her because I thought that she—I don’t know.” That brokenness is back again, and it seems so far from the Sander he knows that it doesn’t seem like Sander at all. But this is just as much Sander as the boy he met in the beach house. This is a part of Sander as much as Bowie is, as much as his art is, as much as Robbe is. It’s just the part he didn’t know. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, Sander, c’mere,” Robbe coaxes. “Come.” Sander settles back into his arms again after some insistent probing on Robbe’s end. Robbe takes the opportunity to rub his back, smooth sweeping motions up and down, until Sander relaxes some. “Okay, now go again. Just breathe.”

Sander does just that, taking a few deep breaths until they grow somewhat even again. “Thank you,” is muttered into Robbe’s chest. 

Robbe kisses his forehead, moving his hand into Sander’s hair, the other now rubbing soothingly over his arm. “What did she say?”

“She asked what did I expect?” Sander huffs a laugh. He seems, like Robbe, not to find it very funny. “Did I not know what happens when I just go around kissing boys? But I wouldn’t, because it was the mania, and I couldn’t think of things like that when I was manic. Didn’t I know that’s why it had to be treated? Didn’t I know that’s why I shouldn’t be pushing her away, because I need her to take care of me? Because I wasn’t thinking, I never think, and she knew it would get me hurt, that it’d make other people get hurt because I couldn’t help but drag them into it, because _of course they’re going to hurt you if you don’t act normal_ —“

He cuts himself off with a ragged breath, but Robbe knows before he hears the sound that he’s crying again. It’s not like yesterday. He isn’t sobbing, isn’t falling apart. This is different, quiet and controlled, and Robbe can’t help but think it’s worse. He hates that Sander still feels this need to direct his hurt inwards, doing everything he can to protect Robbe from himself. Robbe will gladly carry some of the weight if it means he can have just a sliver of Sander’s light back in his life. 

He will gladly take every memory of Britt and every word she’s ever said from his beautiful blonde head and shred them into a million pieces. 

“Sander, no.” Robbe curls towards him, holds him impossibly tighter, and feels some of the ache fade. “Sander, that’s not okay. It’s not your fault. Do you hear me? _None of it is your fault._ You’re not abnormal because you’re bipolar. You’re not abnormal because you like boys. They’re the ones who are fucked up, okay? It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you, baby. It’s not our fault.”

Sander tucks his arm between their bodies to press his fist against Robbe’s chest. “But it was, the first time.”

Robbe freezes. 

“I started it.”

Robbe tries to make words, but he can’t quite get anything out. His voice has left him, shrinking low in his throat, away from the tension closing his vocal chords. His brain cowers away, shutting down before it can run away with its lone thought. Every single one of his cells is only capable of screaming _no_. 

“They weren’t even doing anything, they were just outside this club. These guys still called out to them as they passed. But they weren’t going to do anything. They wouldn’t have done anything. But I couldn’t let it go, and I called them out, and when he—when he came over to me I asked him what the fuck was wrong with it, and then I...I kissed him. I thought, I don’t know, I thought—I thought I’ll just prove my point, and I didn’t even _think_. It was the stupidest thing I could’ve done and it seemed like a perfectly sane idea.” He laughs derisively, and it’s almost a sob. Robbe blinks hard at the wall and draws his bottom lip between his teeth, holding Sander silently. “It was my first manic episode.”

“The guy hit me,” he says, in a tone that implies _obviously_ could be tagged on at the end. “And I think I just went into shock. But the two outside the club came to help me, and it just—it didn’t make any difference. There were four of them and they were bigger and they knew what they were doing. I went to the police with them. But all they focused on was that _I provoked them_. It didn’t even matter that they’d thrown the first punch. I goaded them into it. I kissed him, so he had the right to sprain my wrist.”

“Fuck,” Robbe breathes, finally. “Fuck, Sander. I didn’t…”

He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, because of course he didn’t. There’s so much that he didn’t know, that he still doesn’t, that he probably never will. There’s a limit, somewhere, to the things Sander will ever be willing to tell him, he realises. But he’s telling him this now. So Robbe will listen, no matter how much he wishes it’s something he’d never have to hear. 

“Britt was there. I don’t know why. I don’t even remember where it was. But she saw the end of it, and she helped me get home, and she messaged me the next day. She’s the only one who knows what happened, aside from my parents. She told me the same thing then. That I should’ve known better in the first place, that I should’ve expected it, that I should’ve at least known better than to expect anything from the police. That going to them would only elongate the whole thing and I should just forget it ever happened, because if anything I was the one who looked bad. I’d done the wrong thing.”

“Sander,” is all Robbe is capable of repeating, hopelessly. He makes himself think through it for a moment, heart breaking a little further with ever one of Sander’s trembling breaths. “That wasn’t okay, either. Yes, you fucked up, but you had the right intentions. You were trying to stand up for someone, trying to help, and you took it overboard but you didn’t hurt anyone. Not like they did. They shouldn’t have hurt you. It wasn’t your fault that they hurt you.”

His chest loosens enough to let a small stab of fury through, a little bit of steel. “And Britt,” he continues, “she shouldn’t have told you it was. Not then and definitely not now. That’s fucked up, Sander. She was the one in the wrong, okay? If she loved you, she wouldn’t have treated you like that. You can’t believe any of that. I promise it’s not true.”

Sander’s hand slides around his neck to curl in his hair. He meets Robbe’s gaze and Robbe holds it, steady and sure. Sander presses forward and kisses him, equally determined, and Robbe returns it slowly, until it turns soft and reassuring and Sander melts into his side once again, face tucked into his neck. Robbe adds another kiss to his hair. 

“Is it too late to go to the police, now? Do you still want to?” Sander asks after a moment. 

Robbe gives him a squeeze. “I don’t think it’s too late. But we don’t have to talk about that now, okay? We’ll just chill.”

“Minute by minute.” Robbe can hear his smile. He gives an affirmative hum in response. “How many other Robbe and Sanders do you think are lying like this right now?”

“Right now? None.” Sander looks up at him, and Robbe lets his voice drop to a whisper. “I think, the universe is giving us this minute. This minute is just ours.”

Sander’s smile is brilliant. Robbe wants to wake up to it forever.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at @peaceoutofthepieces


End file.
